How the gold has grown dim, how the pure gold is changed! The holy stones lie scattered at the head of every street.
The precious sons of Zion, worth their weight in fine gold, how they are reckoned as earthen pots, the work of a potter's hands!
Even the jackals give the breast and suckle their young, but the daughter of my people has become cruel, like the ostriches in the wilderness.
The tongue of the nursling cleaves to the roof of its mouth for thirst; the children beg for food, but no one gives to them.
Those who feasted on dainties perish in the streets; those who were brought up in purple lie on ash heaps.
For the chastisement of the daughter of my people has been greater than the punishment of Sodom, which was overthrown in a moment, no hand being laid on it.
Her princes were purer than snow, whiter than milk; their bodies were more ruddy than coral, the beauty of their form was like sapphire.
Now their visage is blacker than soot, they are not recognized in the streets; their skin has shriveled upon their bones, it has become as dry as wood.
Happier were the victims of the sword than the victims of hunger, who pined away, stricken by want of the fruits of the field.
The hands of compassionate women have boiled their own children; they became their food in the destruction of the daughter of my people.